The Maternal Scream

My wife has been pregnant with our first child for a little more than four months and for me, so far, it’s been…underwhelming.

Wanted: For bringing reality of parenting to the fore.

Other than some minor but well appreciated body changes, we’ve been operating business-as-usual, if in a heightened, giddy state of not knowing what to expect. It’s like waiting for the mushrooms to take effect: You feeling anything yet?

That’s to say I’ve been patiently awaiting the freak out–the singular blast of reality that snaps it all into focus and confirms that, indeed, we’re taking the ride.

This weekend we got our blast, or at least a big dose.

Our dog went missing in Bernal Heights (and you don’t have to be Sigmund Freud to analyze this scenario). While my wife went searching in one direction, I went in the other, whistling and calling the dog’s name.

From a block away, and with my back turned to her, I heard my wife call our dog’s name with a tone and intensity that raised the hair on my neck. The pitch carried a maternal fear that all mammals recognize instantly and the rawness caught me off guard: When did she develop those skills?

It was enough to jolt me into a this-is-for-real state that I’m not sure existed ten minutes earlier.

She’s a mother. I’m a father. New vocal range for everyone.

Our dog turned up–missing, maybe, three minutes tops–and we were so elated my wife cried. I felt so happy to see the damn pooch I wanted to smack it, perhaps revealing my own primal instincts. But I managed to pet it very, very, hard.